


The wizard in the wardrobe

by SmolSilverFox



Category: Gloryhammer (Band)
Genre: Angus XIII and Zarg have both major chaotic bisexual energy, I will die on that hill, M/M, crackship, listen i tried to come up with the most bullshit shipping i could and this was the result
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:21:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22476301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmolSilverFox/pseuds/SmolSilverFox
Summary: Angus McFife the 13th has been chasis his nemesis Zargothrax for as long as he can remember. Time and time again, the mortal enemies meet, just to part without having resolved the epic battle.Problem is that apparently, polar opposites DO attact....(Crackship. Don't take this seriously. Or do, who am I to tell you what to do with your life?)
Relationships: Zargothrax/Angus
Comments: 3
Kudos: 22





	1. A sorcerer's touch

**Author's Note:**

> I forgot who encouraged me to write this, but shoutout to our discord server in general for making me write absolute bullshit and being brave enough to publish it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zargothrax find the prince in an unfortunate situation... but it goes differently than he expects.

„It’s about time.“

The sorcerer smiled down on him, his face nearly hidden beyond his hood - except that malevolent smirk. Angus looked around nervously, trying to discreetly disentangle himself from the trap he’d foolishly walked into. His hammer was out of reach. Zargothrax had no hurry walking towards him, his noble red robe hovering an inch off the ground. 

“Congratulations, you have me.“ The brave prince saw no other choice than to face the sorcerer head-on, hopeless as it was. Stuck in a magical trap with no chance of escape, and unable to move due to the very non-magical problem of his cloak getting caught, he could not even defend himself.    
But he wouldn’t let that stop him from at least shooting back in words. 

The dark sorcerer stopped a single step in front of him and seemed to hesitate. To Angus’ surprise, Zargothrax dropped his hood back, for the first time fully revealing his face to his enemy.

He looked... good. Considering he was a centuries-old sorcerer, no less. A round face without the markers of old age, framed by dark locks. A neatly trimmed beard and black eyes gleaming with wit and a hint of laughter. Well, evil laughter, but laughter nonetheless.

Zargothrax must have read Angus’ face, for he smirked. “Does my appearance surprise you, oh mighty prince?”

He looked too young to be the evil overlord Angus knew him as. With his hood dropped back and his hair on his shoulders in soft curls, he could well be one of the many fellow noblemen Angus had spent his teenage years with.    
Not the boring, diplomatic sort either, the ones only interested in doing business and growing their influence. No, he reminded the prince of the young men he’d drank with, played games with until long in the night... and who had joined him in whatever happened when young, curious men got drunk.

The sorcerer seemed to take him in from head to toe, a strange prism of expression flickering over his face in rapid succession. Doubt, anger, scorn, worry...

He took another step forward, now barely inches from his captive. 

„You know McFife, we could be more than just enemies.“

Zargothrax tried to sound soft, but instead his voice came out as a menacing whisper.    
It sent a shiver down Angus’ spine but he held the burning gaze by sheer force of will. 

The dark sorcerer lifted his hand.

Angus was sure the next second he’d be hit by a curse or simply turned to ash, but the sorcerer merely put a finger under Angus‘ chin. His hand was warm and surprisingly gentle as his fingertips followed the line of the prince’s jaw, light as an eagle’s feather, leaving behind a faint tickle. 

Angus felt his heart beat in his temples, heat rising in his chest. He clenched his jaw as to not betray his emotions.

„Yes,“ he spat, giving the sorcerer the most intense glare. „Archenemies or even better, Nemesis! You’re into big words, right?“

Zargothrax blinked at him, for the first time ever seeming truly taken aback.    
His face twisted into a snarl as he stepped back, energy crackling at his fingertips.    
“You damned-“ Lightning thundered down from the sky, illuminating the cloaked form of the sorcerer and the anger in his features, but also... disappointment?

“That is not-“ He rubbed his forehead, turned to leave, then spun again to face the prince. Lightning crackled from his fingertips, his voice trembling with frustration.    
„If you’d only use the only two brain cell you have in that big head of yours, Angus! You can’t be THAT dense!”

It was ridiculous. He had the kid in his claws, right there. But now, looking into those lively blue eyes, squinting at him while the gears in his head were clearly spinning as fast as they could - he just couldn’t kill him. 

How could he, the great and mighty Zargothrax, have fallen for such a pathetic mortal? He wasn’t sure if he was more angry with himself for letting his feelings take over, or Angus for being so damned cute. 

„This isn’t our last meeting, McFife,“ he growled, throwing his hood up as the sound of unicorn hooves approached them at breakneck speed. The dark sorcerer turned and walked away, head held high and yet giving off a sense of defeat.    
Maybe if he helped himself to a few drinks he could wait this mess out. Or even better, just drown that part of himself for good.

Angus stared after him, too baffled to answer or even call a witty remark at his back.

„Prince Angus, are you injured?“    
Ser Proletius nearly flew off his unicorn before it could come to a halt, rushing to disentangle his ruler from the unfortunate situation. Angus was about to warn him of the dark sorcerer’s spell, but to his surprise, the deceitful trap did not spring. Zargothrax must have dissolved it before he left.

Angus answered the knight’s worried questions, waving off any injuries, but entirely left out the dark sorcerer’s presence. He wasn’t sure why himself.

Returning to the castle, he had to bear a few jokes at his expense, but the topic was quickly laid to rest as the daily routine took over. But no matter how hard he tried, Prince Angus could not focus on business anymore. Hour by hour, he could not help but turn over the meeting in his head, and yet with every repetition he became more confused and none the wiser.

He just couldn’t forget the dark eyes of the sorcerer mustering him, so close to his face, the deep red glow in them, matching the fire in his own soul. What in the world had he meant by “more than just enemies”?

Angus knew it was silly, and foolish. Probably the result of a deceitful spell.    
But as he stared into the darkness, the long day ended with an equally long night, he could not help but remember the warm fingers on his skin, and realized he wanted to feel the dark sorcerer’s touch once more.


	2. Corrupt me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zargothrax managed to capture Angus. But somehow, he can't bring himself to kill the prince.

„Listen up your highness, I’m aware I’m not perfect. Not yet, anyway, getting there of course.“ Zargothrax waved a hand at a constellation map that the prince had no idea how to read.   
“Angus.”  
The sorcerer stopped in his tracks, momentarily taken by surprise. “...what?”  
The prince shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position in his unfortunate situation, but still managed to give the sorcerer a grin that was decidedly too handsome, uh, cheeky, uh, no, insolent! That was the word he meant.   
Insolent puny mortal.   
“I’ve chased you through three universes, I think it’s warranted to call each other by first name now. Is Zargothrax even your real name? I doubt your mother called you that. That seems like inviting trouble.”  
“It’s a family name,” the sorcerer responded stiffly.   
That sarcasm wasn’t exactly Angus the -- was it the 11th? The 15th? He had no idea. That it was not Angus’ strength came as no surprise.   
The McFifes had never been famed for their wits. Theri stubbornness however, was the tale of legend and Angus the 14th (or whatever) was no exception.  
True to his ancestors, that insufferable human still fired back at his captor, even after days of being imprisoned, probably at the end of his physical strength and terrified.   
Zargothrax had seen the fear in the prince’s face. There was no doubt he was in physical pain. And yet he didn’t back down.  
It was infuriating, but also infuriatingly charming.  
Zargothrax stepped up to his captive, dropping his hood back. Last time, that had worked wonders. The sudden averting of eyes confirmed his success. He smirked at Angus, bowing down to be on eye level, and placed two fingers under the prince’s chin. He tipped the prince’s head upwards, forcing him to meet his gaze.   
“The Hootsman and Proletius will find me,” Angus rasped. “You don’t stand a chance.”  
Zargothrax rolled his eyes. “Terrifying, I’m outright trembling.”  
“You can’t kill me!”  
Zargothrax’ smirk widened a bit to hide his annoyance. No, probably not. That darned hermit had graced the prince with some impressive wards. None protected him from being tied to a chair by a very much non-magical, classical rope though. The prince returned his gaze, letting on the hint of iron will he must have inherited from his ancestor.  
“How many times do you want them to rescue you, mortal?”, the sorcerer teased, drawing his fingertips over Angus’ jawline. To his surprise and pleasure, the prince flushed, trying to avoid his gaze once more.  
“As often as it’s necessary! Why don’t you just kill me? Take the knife, if you must, hell, a brick would do in this situation. You could do anything to me-“ Angus broke off, realising what he’d just said. His face turned bright red, desperately trying to look away. Zargothrax didn’t let him, locking his jaw in place with one hand.  
“Indeed I could,” he purred. “What would you like, my prince?”  
“I just said you can call me Angus.”  
Zargothrax blinked, torn between facepalming so hard his home dimension would hear it, and slamming his head in a desk. Or, in lack of a desk, into the prince’s armoured lap.  
He straightened up and threw his hands in the air in defeat, lightning flashing from his fingertips.  
“Of all the people I could have fallen for, a mortal was bad enough, but it just had to be the DUMBEST MOTHERFUCKER in this entire kingdom, didn’t it? Why you. Why me. How in the name of the gods did this HAPPEN?!”  
Angus stared at him. The gears in his head were visibly spinning. He opened his mouth, closed it again, thought a bit more. He went pale, before his cheeks flushed a lovely shade of pink.  
“You... you fancy me? Why didn’t you say so?”  
Zargothrax flopped down on the floor with a defeated sigh. This was no fun if his prisoner didn’t play along. He didn’t even seem SCARED anymore.   
Why this guy? Why him.  
“And I already wondered why you didn’t kill me. I thought maybe you liked Super Mario too much.” When the sorcerer just stared blankly at him, Angus added helpfully: “You know... Bowser always kidnapping the princess? I don’t think it exists in this dimension yet, but in the last one it was a huge deal.” Angus’ smile lit up his entire face.  
“I should kill you.” The words were too quiet, spoken in a manner too defeated to bear any threat. “I. Should. Kill. You. I should have done it before any of this nonsense happened.”  
“Then why didn’t you?”  
Zargothrax laughed. The prince winced a bit. He was certain the dark sorcerer was incapable of any laughter that didn’t sound evil, but this time, the threat it bore was minimal, an artefact of his natural pitch.  
“The same reason you haven’t grabbed your hammer and run while I wasn’t looking.”  
Angus stiffened, looking worried for a moment. Realizing he had been caught, he gave in, drawing his hands from the slings he’d undone hours ago. He got up and stretched, relieving the ache in his wrists, before grabbing his hammer from the far wall, where it had been placed to taunt him, far away yet unreachable.  
But instead of leaving or even attacking, the prince sat down on the floor across the dark sorcerer, his weapon across his knees.  
“So.... you fancy me. That’s why you never killed me,” Angus summarised. A slight smile played over his lips, curiosity overpowering common sense. “And now what? What’s your end goal, if you won’t eliminate your biggest threat?”  
The dark sorcerer let out a wordless snarl, lightning flashing around him, but being easily repelled by the wards Ralathor had worked into the prince’s armour. Not that it would have hurt him, the electricity merely caused every hair on his body to rise in a strange but pleasant manner.  
Angus cocked his head and grinned. “Are you scared I’d notice you’re not as evil as you pretend to be?” He leaned back and stretched his sore legs, feet nearly touching the rim of the sorcerer’s robes. “Every suitor of mine got strangely ill before I could truly get to know her. Tragic, but none of them are dead, just scared off. Why not kill them?” He frowned, a cute, uh, a, a, well a godsdamned crease appearing between his eyebrows. Just a crease. Nothing special about it. “You have the Knife of Evil. I doubt Ralathor could prevent THAT thing from harming me. Stab me, make its power corrupt me, there you have me by your side. Sounds simple enough.”  
It took a while for the prince to catch up with his own words. The implication was terrifying. He didn’t want to die, of course, and as attractive the sorcerer was - the threat of his person adding maybe a bit too much of a thrill - he was an enemy of Dundee, and should not be left alive. His ancestors would be gravely disappointed in him, not to think about every present-day person...   
Thus, he had nobody to talk to about this ridiculous situation, not even Ser Proletius or the Hootsman.   
He found the sorcerer staring down at the weapon Angus had just summoned in his maybe a bit too quick observation, its obsidian blade shimmering in the muted light.   
“It wouldn’t be the same.”  
“How?”  
The dark sorcerer sheathed the blade again. The next moment, Angus was flat on his back, pressed down by not only the weight of his opponent (was he an opponent right now?) but also whatever spell Ralathor had not been able to predict. The sorcerer’s warm hand lay against the prince’s throat, hard enough to hurt, but not cut off the air entirely. Angus grasped for his hammer, just to find it out of reach by a few inches.   
“No emotional talk to find a solution?”, he rasped.  
Zargothrax smirked, settling himself comfortably on the prince’s thighs, also effectively locking him in place. He caught Angus’ hand before he could even come near to hitting him, easily pinning it to the floor with some of his dreadful sorcery.   
“You should have guessed I’m not the type for that,” he said with a smirk.  
“Then what is it?”, Angus retorted. “Why not use the blade?”  
Just for a moment, Zargothrax seemed truly taken by surprise, staring at the prince like a deer in the headlights of a car.   
“Because I’m a necromancer, not a necrophiliac, you fool!”, the sorcerer snapped. “You’d be dead! Even Proletius was dead, deep inside, though the blade preserved his body. What would I want with that?”  
Angus blinked at him, thinking hard about what he should say. He couldn’t move a limb, let alone throw the sorcerer off.   
He should have known that his fantasies of romance didn’t exactly agree with the sorcerer’s personality. Evil remained evil, and a man who rejoiced by his deeds like Zargothrax didn’t exactly change on a whim. Unfortunately, that was exactly what made him so interesting.   
His tirade was strangely endearing, showing a side of the wizard Angus had not previously considered. Angus would never hurt anyone without need, Gods no, but the air of forbidden deeds, of mystery, it was tempting, exciting. It promised him adventure, far away from his duties, far away from all the expectations he’d lived with since birth.   
And that didn’t even consider the things he felt when he looked into those burning red eyes, seeing the curls fall over the sorcerer’s shoulders in shining waves, feeling the palms against his skin, soft and smooth due to using magic instead of physical weapons.  
Angus was rudely awakened from his pondering by the wizard’s bellowing laughter. With horror, he realized he’d drifted off, and his body had responded. Angus flushed deep red, trying to say something but not knowing what as Zargothrax smirked at him, his thumb tracing the prince’s jaw.  
“I’m getting the impression you’re not as resistant to my charm as you pretend to be,” the sorcerer growled, eyes sparkling in malicious delight. They were only inches apart now, and Angus realized - in the absent, dampened way stray thoughts ran when adrenaline was coursing through your veins - that Zargothrax smelled of pleasant herbs and something like flowers. Huh.  
Angus heard the steps outside first, easily making out the familiar pattern of fur-clad leather boots. Thank the gods.  
“Neither are you,” he purred, before gathering his courage and pressing his lips on the sorcerer’s. His beard tickled his cheeks slightly, and had it not been for the absurdness of this situation, the sensation might even have been pleasant.   
Maybe it was, even now.   
As the Hootsman burst through the door, battle axe ready to strike, Angus was just done dusting himself off and picked up his hammer.  
The barbarian came to a sliding halt, throwing dust everywhere.   
Ser Proletius, coming right behind, ran into him at full speed. The knight rebounded like a flipper ball and landed on his behind in a rather undignified manner.   
Last came Ralathor, quiet as always, though his grey eyes seemed to pierce right through the prince’s mind.  
“Where’s Zargothrax?”, Proletius found his voice, looking around with the most perplexed expression the prince had ever seen on the usually so quick-witted knight.  
“He got away,” Angus confessed. Aware of his still flushed cheeks, he scratched his neck as if embarrassed by having failed. “He must have understood he could not beat me in the end, and teleported away.”  
“...oh.”   
The Hootsman pulled Proletius to his feet again and dusted him off with his free hand like a fallen pillow. For once, the knight was too stumped to complain.   
“Are you injured, my lord?”, Proletius asked, sweeping over the prince with his gaze. He seemed alright, a bit ruffled and sweaty perhaps, but nothing that a bath and a night in a comfy bed couldn’t fix.  
“A bit stiff from captivity,” the prince answered. He swung his hammer over his shoulder and walked past them, to the exit they’d no doubt left, whether it had existed prior or not. He didn’t meet the hermit’s gaze, who watched him intently from under the shadows of his hood.  
“We should get going, my father is surely worried,” he called back, following the corridor as quickly as he could without breaking into a run.  
The Hootsman and Proletius looked at each other, then at the hermit, who did not seem willing to participate in the conversation. Ralathor let his gaze sweep over the room one last time. Then he turned and vanished down the dim hallway.   
The two warriors looked at each other again, shrugged, and followed. One thing did bother them about the scene though, and it was Proletius who eventually dared speak it aloud.  
“Why does it smell like roses in here?”


End file.
